The Book of Revelations has fascinated me since I discovered, way back in the 60's, Swedenborg's interpretation of it. Where did all those creatures come from? They reminded me of a circus. I wrote some surreal doggerel rap about it and drew little icons à la Paul Klee travel slides . I imagined an entire movie of it with Saint-Saëns' Symphony #3 in the background, and a little red headed girl in the foreground performing all the circus acts on ferris wheels and merry-go-rounds. Visions upon visions.

I was glad to read recently that Orlando's Disney World had actualized my vision in their French Pavilion at the Epcot Center, so why was I surprised and a bit disappointed to find how commercialized The Holy Cave of the Apocalypse had become over the centuries? Apostle John would not have recognized it with the indoor copper plumbing. But don't blame the Patmos Islanders. This cave is most likely responsible for half their income. It's their Disney World, after all. Nevertheless, it quickly became apparent that if I were to experience any of St. John's visions, I had to find a cave of my own — preferably somewhat more primitive — sans icons and golden threaded tapestries.


Exiting the cave, I began to walk and talk with a vacationing Swedish couple who had been dreaming of a Greek Island all their long dark winter. I was about to share with them the finer details of my summer exploits thus far, when I felt a splash in my left ear. The couple had vacated all their clothing and plunged naked into the sea. Er, uh..., I mumbled peering off nonchalantly into a distant hill. Apparently, their winter visions of Grekland varied significantly from Brother John's. As I turned around to continue in quest of my own authentic apparition domicile, I was confronted by an old Greek sailor with an impish grin making strange hand gestures. I felt it best not to linger long enough to discover what visions he had in mind, and continued my hike along the beach to the southern part of the island where the only visible inhabitants, at that time, were goats.


Grikos Bay

In a mile or so, I came across a unique landmark at the end of a skinny isthmus — a cave within a rock carved out by the sea. It was deserted, understandably so, for its floor was a litter box of goat pellets. Apparently, goats took shelter herein from whatever storms blew across the isle. You know, once you get past the thought of it, there is nothing softer than a bed of goat pellets. Happy was I to possess my orange water-proof poncho, I thought as I lay down perchance to dream in my home sweet home till the boat returned three days hence.